


Issa Witcher Crossover

by Shamione



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Evil Author Day, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:22:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29471637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shamione/pseuds/Shamione
Summary: Hermione Granger. Or better known on the island as Yennefer of Vengerberg. Yen. The Horsewoman of War.84 days ago.Just after her 26th birthday on Earth, spent with family and friends, she had fallen asleep and felt trapped in a nightmare that swirled out of control. And she startled awake in an unfamiliar wooden home; a damp windy shanty shack on the cliffs of a water locked land mass that hardly kept the chill out.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Kudos: 4
Collections: Evil Author Musings





	Issa Witcher Crossover

**Author's Note:**

> I CANNOT STRESS ENOUGH HOW INCOMPLETE THIS IS. Lol in the spirit of Evil Author Day 2021, I'm posting this COMPLETELY unedited version of chapter 1 of my Dramione / Witcher "crossover."
> 
> This has been sitting in my backlog for so long, and I don't know if I'll ever get to it. But, hey, #evilauthor amirite?

Hermione sighed, rolling her neck against her gloved fingers to relieve a measure of tension held deep within the confines of the body she called home. The lingering scent of honeysuckle and white myrtle waft against her senses as she tucked a scant portion of coin into the purse against her bosom, frowning deeply.

Another potion. Another day. Another satisfied yet poor customer profusely thanking her for healing an alignment that wasn't truly there.

Her fingers itched for a wand to clear her stone and wooden workspace. To feel the pulse of magic that seemed to be fading into distant memory. To hold control over the elements she called forth and cleanse her area with ease. But the (what?) Of need would be just that.

Groaning somewhat, Hermione rinsed and tucked away her muddle and the dirty vials she has used to mix (potion.) Pulling down a bushel of (ingredient), she plucked the leaves slowly, drying them over an open flame before packing them into small wooden boxes with unfamiliar labels. Adding a few more logs to the fire she so desperately clung to for warmth these days.

It would be dark soon, and if she intended to eat this evening, a trip into town for the day's catch of fish was in order. Shouldering a thick, black, fur-lined cloak, Hermione pulled on the delicate pair of heeled, crude leather boots, sighing deeply as she stepped out from the cold confines of the apothecary.

The fresh scent of ocean breeze prickled against her skin, the late day winter's cold biting at her nose as the wind blew off the (port). The slick, snow covered pathway from her hilltop cottage seemed steeper today as her boots drew her forward. Away from her shanty apothecary and home all in one.

Down the sloping steep into the dirt laden town below. Into Kaer Trolde harbor, Ard Skellig.

The Skellige Isles.

Seven distinct islands situated well north of the mainland, as the Islanders' called it. Where it seemed to snow more often than not, lined with (steep), (dangerous) mountains that littered snow even on days where the skies were clear. Sunrises were beautiful, glistening off low fog as the sun danced across crystal clear lakes. And sunsets could rival only a creation of the gods, pinks and oranges and purples dancing across the sky and the long ocean horizon.

Hilltops offered views for (kilometers) of tall, well matured trees that split to allow rivers to cut through stone basins. Deer were plenty and rabbits the same, when they weren't eaten by the wild things that roamed the free, open lands. Fields of wildflowers seemed resistant to the weather about them, painting delicate colors against the landscape that seemed (what?)

Home to seven different clans, all united under one Jarl in service to only their islands.

Home to Kaer Trolde, a castle carved directly out of the stone mountain face overlooking the town below. That could only be accessed by a long, winding bridge that (what?) Home to Jarl Cerys an Craite and her husband, (who?). Filled with laughter by more than one small child breaking all the rules, whose names Hermione couldn't remember if she tried.

Packed from one end of small port towns to the other with smiling faces of the Islanders that manned ships and shops. A proud people that celebrated the goddess Freya, offering penance for bountiful love and fertility. And the gods of the seas, (praying) for fishers to bring ashore (bountiful) fresh hauls and the air that surrounded it. A people who drank more mead than necessary, who celebrated their heritage fully, and protected their families fiercely. And who deeply loved and served one another more than Hermione had ever seen.

And herself.

Hermione Granger. Or better known on the island as Yennefer of Vengerberg. Yen. The Horsewoman of War.

84 days ago.

Just after her 26th birthday on Earth, spent with family and friends, she had fallen asleep and felt trapped in a nightmare that swirled out of control. And she startled awake in an unfamiliar wooden home; a damp windy shanty shack on the cliffs of a water locked land mass that hardly kept the chill out. Littered with odd objects, massive books, hanging herbs that sought to dry but never seemed to manage. And a rather large, taxidermy unicorn that seemed well used in the middle.

And she found herself housed in an unfamiliar body.

Whoever Yennifer may have been, Hermione didn't feel at home in her skin. She was utterly beautiful. Her slightly pointed ears laid hidden behind silky, long, manageably curly raven colored hair. Her eyes sparkled like two deep, meticulously cut amethysts in the dusty mirror, surrounded by charcoal and too many brushes. And even by Hermione's standard she was short, standing barely 154cm tall, which seemed to accentuate her slender frame, endowed in all the right areas.

A pure vision only seemingly crafted by magic.

And apparently this woman knew just how beautiful she was, and liked to show it. Her entire wardrobe consisted of black leather with white trimming, frilly lace knickers, and quite a few leather cufflets and chokers. Long black dresses with belts and buckles that pushed her breasts high and flaunted every curve her body possessed.

"Yennifer!" A husky female voice sang through the crowd of the market.

"Cerys," Hermione smiled softly.

"You'll join us tomorrow night, will you not?"

"I couldn't miss it if I wanted to, could I?"

"Ha! You could not," Cerys grinned. "And I've invited a guest we haven't seen in many years."

("Who, pray tell?")

"Your old friend, Geralt of Rivia."

The name passing through her ears made her heart stop momentarily. She'd read of the man multiple times in Yennifers journals. And dreamed of him more often than not when she finally fell asleep. His silken hair and strong hands. The anger in his face as they argued. The passion in his kiss as they made love.

The bond they apparently possessed.

How could Hermione face this man? He'd know it wasn't Yennifer in her own body. And how could she explain not knowing how her concious had landed within her unfamiliar skin? He'd cut her down thinking some (shifter) had stolen her likeness.

"I expect you at sundown to greet our guest as the castle's liaison."

"Jarl I have informed you…"

"Ya, ya. You're out of politics, I know. But ye need the gullet of a Wyvern, do ye not?"

"You said there were no wyvern around Skellige."

"And there weren't until one of them dammed beasts showed up on (island.) So will ye accompany your lover or not?"

"Sundown it is."


End file.
